


Little Slices

by Wirrrn



Category: Freddy vs. Jason (2003)
Genre: Friday the 13th series, Graphic Violence, M/M, Nightmare on Elm Street series, classic art, disturbing dream imagery, horrorslash, hot hunks doing homoerotic things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2146494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wirrrn/pseuds/Wirrrn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trey and Blake are working their way towards each other. Unfortunately for them, at the same time, Freddy Krueger is working his way back into Springwood's unconscious and Jason Voorhees is working his way to Elm Street...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Slices

**LITTLE SLICES by Wirrrn**  
                         
  
        "We have eyes and we have nerveses  
         We have claws and we have teeth;  
         You'll all get what you deserveses  
         When we rise from underneath..."  
       (Neil Gaiman, CORALINE)

  
                                                                                          "I can dream now, Joey;  
                                                                       Oh, you wouldn't believe what I can dream of now..."  
                                                                                                 (HELLRAISER III)  
  
  
                                              "-She's knitting dreams, with her needles stuck through my madwoman's hair,  
                                                           into my sleeping brain like the horns of a nightmare creature;  
                                                                                        Woolgathering, she called it,  
                                                                             and when I pulled it over my eyes I felt safe..."  
                                                                       -Libby Hughes, THE MADWOMAN'S KNITTING  
  
                                                                                                          *   *   *   *     
  
  
  
_//Kill him mommy...//_  
  
The high, genderless voice of a young child.  
  
_// ....He can't hide; no place to hide...//_  
  
-Only... Strange.  
  
Jarring and wrong, as if it's somehow *not* a child, not quite.  
  
_//...Kill him mommeeee...//_  
  
-And now a different voice, deeper, older and male- and sudden and shocking in its phlegmy, glottal hatred.  
  
"...You heard him, bitch; stop rotting already and just *gut* the Little Piggy!"  
  
Gasping, slick with dream, Trey Harker tore himself free of sleep and sat bolt upright in the bed, fighting to breathe. The bedclothes slipped away from his muscular, nude body to pool in his lap. Apart from the thin sheet next to his skin, stuck to his chest and belly, glued there by the nectars of fear. He had to *peel* the wet thing from his body, though his hands shook and it came reluctantly  
  
_[Ssssssssshhhhhhhhchhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiikkk]_  
  
The young man sat in the bed for a moment, rubbing a hand over his handsome face. 

He'd been having some kind of nightmare, he was sure. He could not remember much- the amnesiac cocktail of chemicals that separated the sleeping mind from the conscious brain was already hosing down the inner walls of his skull, blasting away clinging gossamer dreamstuff to make way for the cold and angular logic of the waking day ahead.

Still, certain lingering images gnawed at him. 

He'd been in a clearing near the edge of the forest.  His dream avatar had retained enough cartographical knowledge to have recognized it as Forest Green, the woodland camping area on the outskirts of Springwood.

//Just next door to Camp Blood// a voice had whispered.

He'd hoped it was his own.

Then, looming from the trees, almost dwarfing them with its presence-  
  
A man. Huge. Face deathly white. No- not his face, the mask that covered it. The eyes behind the plastic mask regarded him with the calm, passionless patience of a hunting crocodile.

Another figure. Wearing a dirty hat and sweater that would be gaily coloured, if not for the caked-on filth. The blood. 

This one keeping to the shadows, flitting from one pool of darkness to the other with lithe movements of its ropy body. Occasionally, it paused under a light source, and he saw the mocking face, grinning madly despite the massive, full-tissue burns that riddled every inch of the fried head.

And something was wrong with its fingers...

Trey frowned. The smaller, burned creature had been cackling in an unpleasant manner, had appeared to be goading the masked giant into performing some task for it. That strangely long hand had pointed towards Trey...

That couldn't have been. He must be remembering the dream wrong. How could they have seen him? He wasn't present in the dream itself; He'd been an invisible observer. And the creatures couldn't have known... they were just dreams, right?

...And the giant had strode forward, dismayingly swift, emotions flaring up in those masked eyes at last. 

They had not been a pleasant, those feelings glimpsed through the hockeyed holes and Trey remembered preferring the blankness. The huge man swung an equally enormous blade at his face and he'd started to awaken and as he had...

...he'd seen the other creature's seared face darken with rage as it impossibly *realized* he was waking up, escaping the blade, the *machete* arcing down at his eyes....

Trey gasped- not just at the memory of the strange and frightening dream, but at the feeling of something tickling the palm of his free hand were it was resting on the bed.

He looked down. 

One of the pillows he'd been lying on was torn open, spilling fluffy goose down all over the mattress, sticking to his bare stomach, legs and pubic hair.

No, not torn.  Cut.

Slashed.

By a blade...

 

Trey grabbed a handful of the impossible feathers, stared at them in wonder. Blake was in the next room over, he remembered. He was good in a crisis. Maybe he'd be able to figure out what the fuck was going on

//and maybe I'll finally give him that tumble he's clearly been wanting for months. Hell knows I don't feel like sleeping alo-//

-A seared hand gripped his wrist.

Knives caught the light on the end of the fingers that caught his arm, highlights playing cruelly on the finger-claws of the vile glove that the burned man wore, the nightmare man who even now doffed his battered hat in greeting, leered horribly and blew on the goose down in Trey's trapped hand, sending a tickling gale of feathers flying into the youth's shocked face.

"...You know what they say, Trey..." 

The seared scarecrow grinned obscenely through the cascade of downy white that obscured everything like a strange blizzard.

"...Kinky is using the feather; Perverted is using the whole *chicken*!"

The clawed hand gripped his wrist tighter, began to saw vertically up his arm, hungry for the veins...

Slash marks begin to appear all over his thrashing body, but no knife is visibly making them.

Freddy isn't *that* strong.

Not yet. ...But Jason is.

  
*   *   *    *  

Blake William awoke to The Scream.

He winced and bit his lip to stop from crying out as his long limbs, forced into Escher-like angles by the poorly stuffed armchair, came alive with a volley of pins and needles as the blood began singing in him again. Rising with numerous pops and cracks from the sitting position he'd apparently held all night, he scratched his chest through yesterday's sweatshirt

(now more sweat than shirt, thanks to his impromptu choice of sleeping arrangements)

and regarded The Scream with baleful eyes.

Edvard Munch's masterwork met his venomous stare glance for glance from its position on the floor before his armchair, the art book it was contained in fallen open on the carpet before him, released from his slumber-numbed fingers sometime during the night.

//Don't look at me like that//

He hadn't meant to drop the expensive book, but then again he hadn't meant to fall asleep in this Spanish Inquisition Relic of an armchair either, merely whittle away a couple of hours with a few of the Old Masters, so he didn't have to lie awake in bed and think of Trey, naked, supine and beautiful right on the other side of the wall...

//Dude, you did *not* just think that// 

Blake was saved further embarrassment when there came an odd, skittering reverberation from his left. A muffled crash.

His first thought was 

//Rats! rats in the walls!//

(which made him flash onto a mental image of Miskatonic University, for some bizarre reason)

But then he realized that the sound wasn't coming from his room at all. It came from further down the hall, from the room that belonged to-

"-Trey? You okay in there, man?"

Another, louder crash, that he felt through the floor, infrasound traveling up into the bones of his feet.

//What the-//

A despairing, keening wail, like something torn from the throat of a hunted animal that knew it would not live to see another dawn. It actually took Blake a few moments of frozen analysis to identify the ululating moan as his best friend's voice.

"...Trey!"

Blake made to dash out into the hall and go to the other teen's aid. As he neared the door of his own room though, something came at him. 

From the corner of his eye he saw a fast, flickering jump as something leapt into the air and flew towards him, flying straight at his head.

He turned, arms instinctively up and out ready to catch whatever it was before it collided with his upper body. He was expecting a trapped, disorientated bird, perhaps a day-blinded, panicking bat, not-

...His Art book.

Blake watched with a sick kind of awe as the large and cumbersome tome of painted masterworks shook off his clutching hands and dove towards him again. The hardened pasteboard covers made angry clapping noises as the book beat them together and propelled itself laboriously into the air.

Even as the teen fought to tear his eyes away from this...hallucination, the book flew level with his eyes, calmed its impossible flight somewhat and hovered about a foot and a half from his face. It rustled quietly to itself as it began flipping its own pages over.

The Scream disappeared, replaced by a whorling blur of paintings as the book-leaves turned impossibly fast. Finally, the book stopped, and again faced the terrified boy.

It was open to a new painting now.

Blake recognized the artist immediately. He'd been ribbed about his famous namesake often enough during more art courses than he could count.

Blake. *William* Blake.

Despite his shock, though his terror, there is a cold, clinical section of the teen's mind that calls up the name and back-story of the baroque little masterpiece floating before him. He knows everything there is to know about the long dead genius who shares both his inverted name and his passion for painting, can see in his head perfect reproductions of everything his mirror-namesake had put to canvas. 

Knowing William Blake's pantheon had given Blake William pre-emptive strike privileges over all the pretentious clods in his classes, all the archly amused professors, who call him on his name as though he hadn't carried the yoke of words around his neck like a dead sea-bird for eighteen and a half years.

Yup, Blake William. Yes, dude, like the painter. It's okay but if you're going for paranoiac religious iconographs, I prefer Bosch. The one tattooed on Ralph Fiennes back? that was 'THE GREAT RED DRAGON AND THE WOMAN CLOAKED WITH THE SUN'. Yeah, it *was* much better than HANNIBAL wasn't it...

After they realized he could run rings around them, Blake facts slipping from his clever tongue all day, his tormentors usually let him wriggle free of the hook and went to bait someone else- maybe that little Goth girl in the shadowy corner of class who paints nothing but moribund clowns in hospital beds. Blake was freed then to go about his business, which, lately, had been trying not to oggle the new guy posing for their life classes, a cute young stud who looked a helluva lot like a less hirsute version of Trey...

//Dude, quit it; he's your best friend, and as far as you know he's straight//

(quick memory flash of the guttural grunts through the walls during the three nights this week Trey had brought a different girl to his bed; Blake had sat in his room with his hard-on pulsing in time to their cries; music turned up, loud, infrasound bass to counter the atonal, glottal fuck-frequencies)

//*really* straight//

//Yeah, but the way he's been eyeing me off lately... Does he know what I'm feeling? He seems...curious//

-So to cut a long story reasonably short, Blake immediately recognized the painting that was now flapping slowly back and forth before his eyes.

GHOST OF A FLEA.

-The eerie little image cavorted before his face, side to side, doing a strange, flapping jig as the heavy book fought to keep in the air, that was oddly suitable for the tone of the piece.

The brownish-yellow, brutish muscle of the creature. Despite the title, it always seemed more demon than ghost to him. Squat, knobbled and lumpen, it cavorted before lush, red velvet curtains that could have been ripped from the subconscious of David Lynch, a large-basined bowl gripped in its ogre-hands, presumably for catching purloined blood to drink.

Blake blinked.

The painting was *moving*

Slowly, with an air of jaunty menace that was *still*  appropriate to the work, the demon-ghost turned its large, lumpen head towards Blake.

It winked at him.

Grinning hugely, seeming to be in no particular hurry, the flea-ghost began to change.

The brown-yellow flesh began to run like tallow. Keloid scar tissue and angry, livid burns stood out at various points all over the face and torso, moments before a filthy red and green sweater and dirty black pants knitted themselves into existence over the body. The hollow brown bowl the creature was carrying warped and elongated into a battered fedora, which the creature flipped around in its hands and perched on its fried head.

Its hands... The claws on the things right hand grew and kept growing, simultaneously sharpening and turning from flesh to steel, until four gleaming knives took shape at the ends of the fingers.

The burned monstrosity that the flea demon had turned into turned around and faced Blake head on. It gave a mocking little bow and doffed its hat in his direction, then moved back over the stage

(the boards of which were now rotting and covered with broken or torn apart children's dolls. God, he hoped they were dolls...)

Dipped an arm behind the red velvet curtain, rummaging around...

And pulled a naked young man, battered and bleeding, from behind the curtains.

"-Trey!"

Seeing that he saw, the creature nodded and propped Trey up on one scarecrow-knee, an obscene ventriloquist's dummy. Blake looked into Trey's face, saw the pain and terror there.

The scarred creature moved its bladed right hand under his friend's chin and held it there, waiting. Suddenly a large, black lobby card, of the kind used in old silent movies, dropped in front of them.

I ALWAYS DID LIKE ROUGH TREY-DE!

Blake threw himself at the heavy art book, grabbing it out of the air and tearing at the pages. Each of the various paintings and their subjects man, woman, child and animal- screamed awfully as he tore as many of them as he could to confetti before throwing the huge tome to the floor.

-There came a single, piercing scream from next door.

The book landed on the carpet with a resounding, horribly biological squish, blood and ichor leaking from the spine and bindings as it flapped its covers together with a pitiable, moribund whine, then fell still.

"Trey!" Blake yelled, rushing to the door. "-Trey, wake up dude! You gotta-"

He reached out and grabbed the doorknob- and screamed as it *bit* into the flesh of his hand, the tiny round lump of brass now molten and running, turning into the same burned face of the leering man from the painting.

Blake yelped and jerked back his hand- and the entire door rolled *up* the wall like some impossible window blind, a discordant flopping sound ringing as it rolled in on itself and disappeared, leaving a blank wall where the door had been only moments earlier.

Blake slapped both hands, palms out, against the impossibly doorless wall, then spun around at the noise of grinding metal from behind him.

Where the opposite wall, the partition separating Blake's room from Trey's, was itself changing. Bubbling, seething, *thinning*, as the peach coloured plaster became translucent. Became transparent. Became a window.

Through which Blake could clearly see what was happening to the friend he wanted to be so much more to.  
  
-The gigantic man looked up from the twitching red mass on the bed that Blake refused to believe was his friend. The huge man's eyes- beads of jet void behind the cold blank expanse of the hockey mask- never left Blake's own as he reached forward and, with two uncannily swift movements, broke the bed in half and Trey along with it.  
  
"NOOO!!" Blake screamed, but the giant man never stopped moving forward, smashing into the window wall and sending it flying into thousands of deadly shards, each of which held the image of the cackling,triumphant face of the burned man with the razors.  
  
As the huge man in the mask strode forward, grabbed Blake by his hair, lifted him off his feet and rammed the machete deep into-

...Blake awoke with his own screams shredding his throat. He frantically clutched at his body in the chair where he had slumped and was both relieved and perplexed to find it unmarred by wounds. A quick look at the door and walls showed them to be nothing more than normal, lifeless wood and plaster.

He put his head in  his hands and wiped sweat from his face, then suddenly jumped from the chair as though electrocuted. "Trey..."

Practically ripping the door free of its jamb, Blake ran down the short hall, his best friend's name screaming in his mind, on his lips.

He opened the bedroom door...

...Trey smiled up at him from the bed, pleasantly. "-Blake; Hey dude. I was just, well, thinking about you."

A wave of a hand down his body, and under the sheet Blake can see a massive tenting at his friend's lap.

"You... were?" 

"-Yup, thinkin'. Amongst other things..."

That hand slid under the sheet. Blake watched with a dry and open mouth as Trey began to pump himself under the covers, head tilted back and a languid grin spreading over his beautiful face.

"-Wanna give me a hand, buddy? Course you do; I've seen the way you've been eyeing me off lately. I mean, who could blame you, right? I *am* hot shit. Come on over, Blake. Get in here with me." Another grin. "Don't make me tell you twice..."

Blake shuffled forward on numb legs, his own cock pulsing in his jeans in time with Trey's under the thin bedclothes. He wondered idly when the cheesy synthesized back-beat was going to kick in to this porno.

"-That's, it buddy..." Trey purred, as Blake stripped naked and slid into the bed opposite his friend. Now that the moment was here, Blake was feeling oddly frightened. He wanted Trey, sure, but he wanted to keep his friendship too.

Trey seemed to pick up on his thoughts. "-Nothing'll change, Blake. We'll always be friends, except now we'll get to fuck when we want. That'll be great, right?"

He leaned over, his fingers idly tracing a path down Blake's face, down his chest.

Blake swallowed and nodded. "Ri..er, right, dude. Jesus, your hand's cold! I've wanted you, man. Wanted you so long...I wasn't sure if-"

Trey is nodding, still stroking. "-I know. And I've been with a couple of guys. Long time ago, so I guess my pucker's tightened up a lot since then. Still-"

The smile turns to a leer and the hand on his chest stops caressing and begins to press Blake down against the mattress.

"Ow! Trey man, your nails..."

Trey sits upright in the bed, unnaturally fast, and throws the sheet back with his free hand. "-I think my hole's big enough for you now, dontcha think Blake?!!"

Blake, struggling against the steel grip of those fingers

//claws//

glances down at what the sheet reveals...at the ragged, bloody wound that is all that is left of his best friend below the waist. 

And he screams. A long, loud scream that would, as his father always jokes, "wake the dead."

But the time for jokes is long gone.

And the dead are already awake.

  
  
\-----------------------------END------------------------  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This came about thanks to me rewatching the awesome FREDDY VS JASON and realizing that all the hottest guys were heterosexual jerks. Naturally, I had to fix that with the douchiest characters of all. The final paragraph is a gay twist on F VS J's deleted alternate ending. Bonus points for getting the title :D


End file.
